This short documentary follows Steve McCurry as he photographs with what Kodak presented as the last roll of Kodachrome ever produced. The premise is straightforward: a film stock that defined colour photography for decades is reaching the end of its life, and one photographer is asked to use it one final time.

The film doesn’t try to turn this into drama. There’s no countdown, no manufactured tension, and no attempt to create a definitive “last photograph.” Instead, it quietly observes McCurry at work – travelling, photographing people, and doing what he has always done: making careful, composed images without fuss.

What stands out is not the symbolism, but the behaviour. The pace is measured. Frames are chosen deliberately. There’s a sense of consideration that comes naturally when film is treated as finite and valuable. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels wasted.

Importantly, the documentary avoids sentimentality. Kodachrome isn’t framed as a relic or a martyr. It’s treated as a working material – loaded, exposed, and respected until it’s gone. The emphasis is on use, not mourning.

Reviews of the film often note this restraint. Rather than trying to summarise Kodachrome’s legacy or elevate the moment into a grand farewell, the documentary keeps its focus narrow: a photographer working carefully with a material that is no longer replaceable.

For film photographers, this is where the film quietly resonates. Not because Kodachrome is special – though it was – but because the process feels familiar. Limited frames. No safety net. Decisions that matter. The documentary doesn’t explain these ideas; it simply shows them.

It’s not instructional, and it isn’t nostalgic for its own sake. It’s a calm record of how photography behaves when materials are finite – and how little that actually changes the act of seeing.

Originally Released: National Geographic
Format: Short documentary film
Focus: Kodachrome film, photographic process, and working with limited materials

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This series is not interested in that.

Britain in Focus: A Photographic History is a three-part BBC documentary presented by photographer and journalist Eamonn McCabe, and it does something increasingly rare: it treats photography as something worth thinking about.

Slowly.

Rather than racing through cameras, techniques, or trends, the series steps back and looks at photography as a cultural force – shaped by science, circumstance, patience, and a great deal of trial and error. It assumes the viewer is capable of concentration, which already places it in a minority.

For film photographers in particular, it’s quietly reassuring television. No urgency. No optimisation. No thumbnails insisting you change your life in ten minutes.

Just photography, taken seriously.

Episode One – When Photography Was Still a Gamble

The first episode travels back to the 19th century, when photography was neither reliable nor especially convenient. Early practitioners were working with unfamiliar chemistry, temperamental equipment, and exposure times that rewarded optimism more than certainty.

McCabe explores the scientific foundations of the medium and the work of pioneers such as Roger Fenton and Julia Margaret Cameron, placing them firmly in their historical context. Photography, at this point, is not a hobby. It’s an experiment – one that might or might not work.

What comes through most clearly is how physical the process was. Plates. Chemicals. Light. Time. Failure. Photography had weight, consequence, and a very real chance of disappointment.

Anyone who has ever waited for film to come back from a lab will feel immediately at home.

Episode Two – Photography Learns to Pay Attention

The second episode moves into the early 20th century, as photography begins to look outward. Newspapers, magazines, and documentary work take shape, and photography becomes a witness to events rather than a curiosity.

McCabe traces the emergence of photojournalism through figures such as Christina Broom and Bill Brandt, and through publications like Picture Post, where images were expected to carry meaning rather than decoration.

What’s striking is how deliberate the work remains. Even under pressure – war, industry, social change – photographers weren’t taking hundreds of frames and hoping for the best. They were watching, waiting, and committing.

It’s an approach that feels surprisingly familiar to anyone shooting film today, long after digital removed the technical need for restraint.

Episode Three – When Images Became Easy

The final episode charts the rise of colour photography, mass circulation, and eventually the digital revolution. Cameras become cheaper, faster, and more accessible. Photography moves from something practiced carefully to something done constantly.

McCabe explores the work of photographers such as John Bulmer, Fay Godwin, Vanley Burke, and Martin Parr, each responding differently to a world saturated with images.

Viewed now, this episode lands on an uncomfortable but useful question:
when photographs become effortless to make, what makes them worth keeping?

It’s a question that quietly underpins much of today’s renewed interest in film – whether people realise it or not.

Why This Series Still Belongs Here

This isn’t essential viewing because it teaches technique.

It’s essential because it restores perspective.

Britain in Focus reminds you that photography has always been shaped by limitation – by what technology could do, by how long things took, and by how much attention a photographer was willing to give. These weren’t obstacles. They were the conditions that made the work meaningful.

That way of thinking sits neatly alongside film photography – and alongside systems like Olympus OM, which were designed to reward patience rather than speed.

Watching this series doesn’t make you want new equipment.
It makes you want to slow down and look more carefully.

Which is usually a sign that something is doing its job.

Originally Broadcast: BBC Television (March 2017)
Series: Britain in Focus: A Photographic History

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Gone were the stiff suits and polite distances of the ’50s lensmen. Bailey swaggered in with a leather jacket, a camera and a working-class accent — and made being a photographer look cool. He shot The Beatles, the Stones and Warhol with the same raw energy he brought to Soho models and East End gangsters.

And while he may be better known for his Rolleiflex, his partnership with Olympus during the 1970s and ’80s brought a swagger to the brand that no amount of spec sheets ever could.

Bailey didn’t just use Olympus — he became its voice, its image, its attitude.

The Photographer Becomes the Star

Born in 1938 in Leytonstone, East London, Bailey was dyslexic, working-class and instinctively visual. He got his first camera in the RAF and never looked back. By 1960 he was shooting for Vogue and within a few years had become the most recognisable fashion photographer in Britain.

Alongside Donovan and Duffy, he formed the “Black Trinity” — but where Donovan was technical and Duffy controlled, Bailey was pure instinct.

He didn’t pose people. He caught them off guard — alive, honest and just a little uncomfortable.

And people noticed. By the early ’70s, David Bailey was famous — not just in photo circles, but across pop culture.

Fashion First, Fame Second

In the 1960s, Bailey wasn’t just a fashion photographer — he was fashion. At a time when most image-makers were anonymous, Bailey became more famous than the people he photographed. He didn’t just appear in Vogue — he defined its look.

He tore through the prim choreography of the previous era and replaced it with something urgent, urban, and alive. Models didn’t pose — they danced, laughed, moved. Shrimpton. Penelope Tree. Jane Birkin. His women weren’t mannequins. They had power.

Bailey’s shoots felt like collaborations, not instructions. He often worked quickly, instinctively, refusing to over-style or overthink. Clothes became part of the story — but never the whole story. What mattered was energy.

He took fashion off the pedestal and put it in the real world. Grit, spontaneity, sex — Bailey gave British fashion photography its first real pulse.

His impact was so strong, it even shaped cinema — Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966 cult classic Blow-Up was loosely based on Bailey’s swaggering, chaotic studio life in swinging London. Fictional, yes — but unmistakably Bailey.

Icons in Frame

Bailey’s portraits didn’t just capture the stars — they helped create them.

His stark black-and-white image of Mick Jagger in a fur hood turned the Stones frontman into a shamanic icon.

His photos of Andy Warhol, John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Michael Caine, Catherine Deneuve and Marianne Faithfull are still printed, referenced and revered today.

He photographed everyone from the Kray twins to the Queen. And in every frame, there’s that Bailey edge — direct, raw, alive.

Bailey didn’t dress people up — he stripped them back. A white background, a stare and nothing to hide behind.

He didn’t shoot around people — he shot into them.

The Olympus Partnership: Trip, OM and Attitude

In 1972, Olympus introduced the Trip 35, a fixed-lens 35mm compact camera. It was small, sharp and easy to use — aimed squarely at the growing amateur market. But what gave it punch? David Bailey in the ads.

His tagline? “Just one click… and I’m in love.”

The delivery? Deadpan. Cockney. Instant icon.

The Olympus Trip became a runaway success, selling over 10 million units. The campaign didn’t show tech specs. It showed Bailey — relaxed, charismatic and accessible. If Olympus made cameras for everyone, then Bailey made it cool to pick one up.

He continued endorsing Olympus through the 1980s, including ads for the OM-10 and OM-2. Whether he used them daily is secondary — what mattered is that when Olympus wanted to speak to the everyman, they chose Bailey’s voice.

And people listened.

OM Style in the Bailey Aesthetic

Bailey’s best-known cameras were his Rolleiflex and later Canon F-1 — but Olympus gave him a different kind of platform. The OM ethos — compact, fast and no-nonsense — echoed Bailey’s entire approach. His portraits were never overlit or overworked. They were fast, close, alive. The kind of work you could absolutely shoot on an OM.

He praised the OM-1’s design and simplicity in interviews and used it on location when discretion mattered. He even featured Olympus cameras in some of his TV projects and documentaries.

As Bailey once hinted, he shot quickly because “thinking gets in the way.”
If Olympus built cameras to get out of the way, Bailey’s attitude made them desirable.

Legacy: Selling the Craft Without Selling Out

David Bailey helped Olympus do something no spec sheet could: make 35mm cameras sexy. He showed the public that photography didn’t have to be technical or elitist. It could be instinctual, expressive, fun.

His role wasn’t just behind the lens — it was on the page, in the ads, and in the culture.

If Maitani built the machines, Bailey made people want them.
Maitani gave Olympus its soul. Bailey gave it its swagger.

Watch: David Bailey, Who’s He?

Below is a compilation of Bailey’s iconic Olympus TV ads — where deadpan humour met marketing genius.
No models, no specs. Just one click, one cocky grin, and a nation asking:

“David Bailey? Who’s he?”

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And then, quite suddenly, it wasn’t.

This is a tale of golden empires, spectacular blunders, chemical magic, digital denial, and a phoenix-like resurrection no one quite expected. It’s also a love letter to grain, to Tri-X, and to those slightly smug moments in the darkroom when you realise: yes, film is still alive – and Kodak, for better or worse, is still part of the story.

Prefer your history with dramatic music and American voiceovers?

If you fancy a deeper dive, the excellent 47-minute documentary by FD Finance – linked above – lays out Kodak’s meteoric rise and Shakespearean collapse in gripping detail. It’s packed with boardroom blunders, bold predictions, and just the right amount of corporate chaos. Worth a watch – ideally with a cuppa and a biscuit.

Now, let’s wind the reel back and begin with how it all started…

Kodak Early Days

Kodak began in the late 1800s, when George Eastman – a man who looked like he’d never smiled in his life – decided photography should be as easy as making toast. Before Eastman, photography involved explosive chemicals, tripods the size of lamp posts and a level of patience most of us now reserve for waiting for software updates.

Eastman’s breakthrough was simple genius: pre-loaded, roll-based film cameras that anyone could use. His 1888 slogan “You press the button, we do the rest” could’ve been written by Steve Jobs. Except Eastman meant it literally – you posted the whole camera back, and Kodak did everything for you. Developing. Printing. Reloading. The works.

By 1900, the Kodak Brownie was the iPhone of its day. Affordable, portable, and wildly addictive. Your nan probably had one. Everyone did. And Kodak? It printed money. Quite literally, in some cases.

The Empire That Shot the World

Through the 20th century, Kodak didn’t just dominate photography – it was photography. They produced the film, the cameras, the paper, the chemicals, and the glossy ads with fresh-faced American families leaping off piers in matching sweaters. They even had a monopoly so strong it made Standard Oil look like a corner shop.

They also pioneered motion picture film. Every Oscar-winning epic from Casablanca to The Godfather was shot on Kodak stock. And when humans finally went to the moon in 1969, guess whose film they took?

(Kodak. Not Fuji. Never Fuji.)

By the 1970s, Kodak had 90% of the film market in the U.S. and a similar stranglehold elsewhere. At its peak, Kodak employed over 145,000 people and was one of the most recognisable brands on Earth.

They were, to borrow a Britishism, absolutely rolling in it.

The Digital Elephant in the Darkroom

And then, they invented their own downfall.

This is not a metaphor. In 1975, Kodak engineer Steve Sasson built the first digital camera. It looked like a toaster with a lens and recorded 0.01 megapixel black-and-white images onto cassette tape. It was, to quote Sasson himself, “a bit rubbish” – but it worked.

Kodak, in its infinite wisdom, responded like a Victorian aristocrat being asked to eat a Pot Noodle: they were vaguely curious, politely horrified, and then dismissed it entirely.

Because Kodak knew their empire was built on selling film. No film, no cash. And so, rather than embrace the technology they’d created, they buried it. For decades. The irony is Shakespearean.

Fast forward to the late ‘90s and the digital camera boom had begun. Kodak tried to catch up, launching early digital compacts (including some decent collaborations with Canon and Nikon). But it was too late. Their business model – based on people using more film than toilet paper – was crumbling faster than a Rich Tea biscuit in a hot brew.

From Glory to Bankruptcy

By 2012, Kodak filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. This was the company that invented the consumer camera and had once been richer than McDonald’s and Nike combined. Now they were flogging patents and office chairs.

To make matters worse, they had sold off key divisions – like their profitable chemicals and healthcare imaging arms – to stay afloat. It was like selling your central heating so you could buy more winter jumpers.

The decline was brutal. Kodak became the poster child for corporate complacency, often held up in business textbooks alongside Blockbuster and MySpace as a masterclass in how to spectacularly fumble the future.

Tri-X and the Ghosts That Refuse to Die

And yet – Kodak didn’t die.

Against all odds (and business logic), Kodak Film lives on. In fact, it’s thriving in its own peculiar way. The recent resurgence of film photography has seen Kodak’s name regain some of its old swagger, particularly among a younger generation raised on megapixels and Instagram filters but now obsessed with grain, imperfection, and analogue cool.

The real star here is Tri-X 400. If Kodak were a band, Tri-X would be their greatest hit, played on loop at every gig. Introduced in 1954, Tri-X has that perfect combination of grit, contrast, and subtlety that no filter can replicate. It was the film of choice for war photographers, jazz album covers, fashion shoots, and street snappers. It still is.

Shoot a roll of Tri-X today and you can feel the ghosts of Cartier-Bresson, Jane Bown, and Don McCullin in your fingertips.

It’s the kind of film that doesn’t just capture a moment – it feels like one.

Kodak Today — A Weird, Wobbly Survivor

So what does Kodak do now?

Well, it’s complicated. There’s still Kodak Alaris, who handle film production and consumer products (including film scanners and photo booths in depressing supermarkets). Then there’s Eastman Kodak, the parent company, which now dabbles in commercial printing, packaging, and other vaguely industrial things nobody fully understands.

At one point, they even tried launching a Kodak-branded cryptocurrency. Yes. Really. It lasted about as long as a roll of 110 film.

Yet, remarkably, Kodak film continues. Colour stocks like Portra and Ektar are more popular than ever (albeit more expensive than a round of drinks in Soho). They’ve even re-released Ektachrome, which is a bit like David Bowie coming back from the dead and releasing a new album on cassette.

Kodak is no longer a tech titan. But it is – somehow – a cultural brand again.

Final Frame: What Kodak Still Means

Kodak’s story is both a cautionary tale and a reminder of how hard it is to kill a good idea. They may have missed the digital boat (and then set fire to the dock), but they created something that transcended business.

They gave us a way to see the world. A way to preserve it. A way to remember who we were.

And even now, in an age of AI selfies and 4K drone footage, there’s still something magical about loading a roll of Tri-X into your camera, stepping into the light, and pressing that shutter.

Because as George Eastman might’ve said, in that no-nonsense way of his: you press the button… and the story begins.

The post The Rise, Fall and Curious Afterlife of Kodak appeared first on Zuikography.

Early Life and Passion for Photography

Born in Kagawa Prefecture, Japan, Maitani’s fascination with cameras began early. At the age of 10, he built his first camera, and by 16, he held four patents. He pursued mechanical engineering at Waseda University, where his passion for photography deepened. In 1956, he joined Olympus Optical Co., Ltd., setting the stage for a career that would revolutionize camera design.

The Olympus Pen Series: Democratizing Photography

In the late 1950s, cameras were often bulky and expensive, limiting access for many. Maitani envisioned a compact, affordable camera that didn’t compromise on quality. This vision materialized in 1959 with the Olympus Pen, a half-frame camera that allowed 72 exposures on a 36-exposure roll of film. Its success was staggering, with over 17 million units sold worldwide.

Building on this success, Maitani introduced the Pen F in 1963, the world’s first half-frame SLR with interchangeable lenses. Its innovative rotary shutter and compact design made it a favourite among photographers seeking portability without sacrificing functionality.

Revolutionizing the SLR: The OM System

By the late 1960s, Maitani turned his attention to single-lens reflex (SLR) cameras, which were known for their bulk. He aimed to create a system that was half the size and weight of existing models. This ambition led to the development of the Olympus OM-1, introduced in 1972. The OM-1 was a game-changer—compact, lightweight, and equipped with a quiet shutter mechanism.

The OM System expanded with models like the OM-2, OM-3, and OM-4, each incorporating advanced features while maintaining the compact ethos. These cameras not only appealed to professionals but also made high-quality photography more accessible to enthusiasts.

The XA Series: Compact Excellence

In 1979, Maitani introduced the Olympus XA, a compact rangefinder camera that fit in a shirt pocket. Despite its small size, the XA featured a sharp 35mm f/2.8 lens and aperture-priority exposure control. Its innovative clamshell design protected the lens without the need for a separate cover, exemplifying Maitani’s commitment to functional elegance.

Design Philosophy and Legacy

Maitani’s design philosophy centered on creating cameras that became extensions of the photographer. He believed that a camera should not interfere with the photographic process but should instead facilitate it seamlessly. This user-centric approach earned him accolades, including induction into the Photo Marketing Association’s Hall of Fame in 1994.

His influence persists in modern camera design, where compactness and user-friendliness remain paramount. Maitani’s work continues to inspire designers and photographers alike, underscoring the timelessness of his vision.

Personal Anecdotes and Character

Colleagues and photographers who interacted with Maitani often remarked on his humility and dedication. He was known to autograph cameras with a diamond-point pen, a testament to his personal connection with his creations and their users. Even after retiring in 1996, Maitani remained involved with Olympus as a consultant, always striving to improve the tools photographers relied upon.

Maitani Conclusion

Yoshihisa Maitani’s contributions to photography are immeasurable. Through his innovative designs, he made high-quality photography accessible to a broader audience and set new standards for camera design. His legacy endures in the cameras he created and in the philosophy that guided his work—a belief in simplicity, functionality, and the joy of capturing life’s moments.

Further Reading


Maitani: The 1976 Hong Kong Interview, Photokina 1976
The Vision Behind the OM System: A Conversation with Yoshihisa Maitani, 1999
OM-System Inside Story by Classic Camera, 2001
The End of the OM System, Asahi Camera Magazine, 2002

The Olympus Story – From the Olympus OM-1 to the XA Series – Maitani Seminar at the JCII Camera Museum on Saturday, November 26, 2005



References

1. Olympus Global. “Special Lecture, Part I: From the Semi-Olympus I to the Pen and Pen F Series.” October 29, 2005.
2. Olympus Global. “Special Lecture, Part II: From the Olympus OM-1 to the XA Series.” November 26, 2005.
3. Wikipedia contributors. “Yoshihisa Maitani.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia.
4. Digital Camera World. “The man behind the Olympus OM camera: Yoshihisa Maitani.”
5. Casual Photophile. “Yoshihisa Maitani – The Man Who Made Olympus.” 

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From the canals of Venice to the boutique camera shops of New York, Snowdon guides the viewer through the evolution of photography — from Canaletto’s use of the camera obscura to the modern obsession with gear and status. Along the way, he deconstructs the myths around expensive cameras, lens envy, and the idea that more tech equals better pictures.

What makes the programme stand out is its balance of humour and insight. A pinhole biscuit tin becomes a teaching tool. A $4,500 Nikon F3 is questioned for its necessity. Photographers like Terence Donovan and Yousuf Karsh make appearances, offering glimpses into portraiture, product, and commercial photography. It’s both a critique of photographic consumerism and a celebration of the craft.

This is not a technical deep dive — it’s a cultural lens through which to understand what photography was becoming by the late 1980s: part art, part business, part illusion.

Length: 37 minutes
Originally Aired: 1981, BBC
Presented by: Lord Snowdon
Featuring: Terence Donovan, Yousuf Karsh, Madame Harlip, and more

Missing Part 2

If you have a copy of Part 2 of Snowdon on Camera or know where it can be viewed, please get in touch. We’d love to include it as part of the Zuikography archive.

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